Breathe in, Exhale
by glass-jars
Summary: Sam, originally intended to be the Boy King, is handed off to Alastair, deemed as useless. He spends his time under the demon's shockingly tender care, the "princeling" of Hell's most talented Archdemon. #Mute Sam Winchester, Stockholm Syndrome, Universe Alteration, Sub Sam, Dark, Rare Pairings, Mildly Dubious Consent. Each chapter will be headed with any relevant tags or triggers.
1. Moth

(I'm not sure what this is. Just. It's definitely not like most of my other fics, so... There will be absolutely no non-con, blood kink or abuse, despite the fact that Alastair is Picasso with a Razor. I choose, instead, to write about how he is studying Sam and grooming Sam to become the worst choice for Lucifer's vessel so that he can keep him as his own until he eventually dies. All characters participating in sexual acts are 18+)

* * *

"Pick one," Azazel says. He raises a hand to point. "I don't want you anymore. I have my boy king."

"Why don't you just kill him, then?"

"Well I've become rather fond of him, you see."

"I am willing to take the boy... If he'll have me." Slow and hot like lava.

Sam looks between the row of demons, wide-eyed. He's heard the reputation of this one—he can't go with a master of torture like that, he just can't—

"Just don't kill him." Azazel's voice fades.

Everything goes black and Sam loses consciousness.

He can't breathe, he can't see, he can't—

The hood is lifted from his face and tossed to the side. Breathing remains difficult.

"Well, well, well." That voice again, like glass being polished with thick, clouded honey. "Aren't you a pretty little thing? Azazel's boy, and now you're all mine."

He closes his eyes. If he could whimper, he would, but his training has been much too thorough. And he thinks, I'm not Azazel's boy; I'm not Lucifer's boy; I'm not your boy. He breathes in noisily through his nose—the closest he has been able to get to making a sound in the past five years.

"Well? Say something."

Sam shakes his head.

He gets a sharp slap to the face, and when he flinches and drops to his knees in subservience he remains silent. Stares at the carpet-covered concrete for a moment, then looks up at the tall, gangly man with deep-set eyes staring down at him as if at an experiment he is particularly invested in.

He twists his mouth into the shape of a snarl, nose wrinkling, but there is not growl to accompany it.

Alastair crouches and tugs Sam up by the collar. "This is not right..." He shoves Sam's bangs out of his eyes and looks into his eyes as if searching for something, and Sam shudders. He doesn't like those eyes. But the voice is worse... "Have they silenced you, Sam Winchester?"

Sam closes his eyes, and Alastair takes that as confirmation. He hauls Sam to his feet as if he weighs less than a bag of rice. Steadies him on his feet and turns his head this way and that, long-fingered hand hot on Sam's cheek, a burning moth. Sam breathes shallowly through his nose.

"Mute, hm?"

"What did they do, train you?"

"They did, didn't they?"

"Would have been preferable to know that beforehand."

The scrape of Alastair's shoe against the gritty, thin carpeting fills the dark air and he steps away—he leads Sam without actually instructing him to move. His hand on Sam's cheek burns and he smiles to himself when the boy instinctively steps where he's meant. The benefits of not just biokinesis and other powers, but the ability to influence another body in even the slightest amounts.

Sam sits on a white plastic chair. One of those bucket-shaped chairs they use, presumably, to torture students and bruise their tailbones. It's not really white, though, not anymore. It's black and brown and rust-colored with little hints of red where still-damp blood adorns its pocked surface. A little bit seeps into the seat of Sam's jeans. He squirms. It doesn't help, and he focuses on the middle buttons of Alastair's blue dress shirt.

"What did they do to you?" Alastair seems to flicker, and suddenly there is a steel stool—of the taupe-painted variety you find in science classrooms, with a plywood seat—under his hand. He settles on this, and looks down at Sam. "Stuffed a gag in your throat and called it good?" He smiles, lazily. "They trained you, through... what?" He leans closer and hooks a finger under Sam's chin. Closer and closer until his nose brushes Sam's cheekbone, and he pulls in a long breath. Scenting. Hand to the face again, on the opposite cheek, and Alastair draws back a fraction of a millimeter. "Torture?"

A draft sneaks along the floor and wraps around Sam's ankles to chill him—Alastair raises his free hand in a careless motion, and the open door at the end of the classroom slams shut. The breeze ceases.

"You can't very well inform me of Azazel's secrets if you are unable to speak, now, can you?" A low, purring hum. It seems as if Alastair is joking, but Sam can't be sure. Alastair taps Sam's cheek with the tip of his middle finger and it's like a brand. The heat of Hell, concentrated into that small space. "You have been trained, I presume, so that the more pain you are in, the quieter you become?"

Sam nods. Shaking.

"Of course." A gusty sigh, and it smells like burnt wood and pewter.

"I don't want that. I want the noise."

"Oh, well."

He leans back and the stool creaks under his weight.

"How old are you, boy?"

Sam shakes his head.

"Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty?" Alastair knows each guess is incorrect, but he enjoys pretending to guess nonetheless. It's evident in the gleam of his shadowed eyes.

"You are seventeen years old and two months old. Raised by John Winchester, found in a stained motel room by Azazel at age ten, raised by him from then on." His expression grows thoughtful.

"Raised and trained by demons, and yet... You remain astonishingly _human_."

His face clears.

"Ah."

He strokes the skin to the side of Sam's mouth, down along his jaw. Taps under his chin. "He waited and grew too dissatisfied to make you his boy king." Settles both hands on his thighs and seems to be aware of every molecule of the universe, though all he does is sit. "No demon blood for precious Sam until he reaches the right age, isn't that right?"

Sam keeps still.

"No wonder."

"Well," Alastair stands. His shape shudders and for a split second it seems as if he's not there anymore, and then he is but his stool is gone. He reaches his hand out for Sam to take, and Sam feels compelled. As if he couldn't resist even if he tried. Sam's hand feels small in Alastair's, though the demon is only slightly taller than him. Alastair pulls him close—tucks him against his chest, with one spidery hand on the back of the boy's head, and one curled at his waist. "I think I shall like to make you my prince, in that case." The room warps around them. The air grows colder, and so Alastair's touch grows hotter in comparison. For a moment, there is no ground beneath Sam's feet. Only high-reaching flames, and Sam is terrified that he'll fall into a lake of fire and burn away.

But concrete pushes up against his feet. He stumbles, but Alastair's grip keeps him upright.

Silence, down here. A basement, it seems like. Something creaks, as Alastair shifts, but Sam can't see what it is with his face pressed against the demon's shirt. A bang, and he jumps, and metal groans.

He looks over his shoulder.

A big boiler, spitting out heat, presumably with a belly full of fire.

When Sam looks up at Alastair again, Alastair chuckles deep in his throat like an old oiled engine.


	2. Born again, Before

(Getting more sexual. Warnings for asphyxiation. Possibly dubious consent. Guess who thinks Sam is beautiful.)

* * *

"Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful."

Not so much as a whine from Sam's mouth but he cranes his head back, lips parted, arching. This is a stranger, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care—he likes to feel good. If that means slipping into a bar with an ID that said he was three years older than in reality, so be it. If it means letting himself be pinned to the bed of the bartender, upstairs, so be it. The bartender is attractive, anyway. A little on the short side, but his eyes, when Sam meets them, are like polished brass, and burn holes into him.

And he calls Sam such nice things.

Over and over and over, a litany of praise. Beautiful, such a lovely boy, so nice like this, so perfect, gorgeous. Sam likes that. It's a different tone from the way Alastair calls him, different from his molasses-dark, veiled compliments. A different kind of heat.

Less like a fever and more like the sun.

It makes that tiny red spot in his mind white out and fade for a moment.

What makes Sam wonder, though, as he listens to the bed springs squeak with the tiniest of shifts, while the bartender moves slowly enough to be noiseless but for his whispered words—what makes Sam wonder, is how easy it all feels. Shouldn't there be resistance, messiness, discomfort, guilt, and so on and so forth? But no. Nothing. It's just like with Alastair, in a way. A little too easy.

Maybe the bartender is something more than he says.

In any case, he sounds very nice when he moans, "good boy."

His grip is like two brands on Sam's hips, and Sam feels like lightning all over, which is strange. Very strange. Tingling through his blood vessels. Hot hands all over him and—he feels, for a moment, like he's ceased to exist completely, and that's never happened to him before but he thinks he might like it.

It also cements Sam's idea that this bartender is not human.

The bartender doesn't kick him out, right away. He makes him lie still in the bed, and personally cleans everything.

The short man actually ends up, on accident, tidying up his entire bedroom while Sam drifts halfway between consciousness and sleep. When he realizes, he's sitting on the floor in front of his bookshelf in the nude, alphabetizing books while Sam watches.

He starts.

"Sorry, kiddo." He drops into bed beside Sam. "I like you. Do you want to stay here all night? I'll make you some waffles in the morning."

Sam shrugs. He signs, "Maybe."

"Alright, you're staying." A crooked grin, and the bartender lays down beside Sam and pulls the blankets up. He reaches over to turn the lamp off, and the room is doused in tarry darkness, split only by the neon letters of an alarm clock in the corner. "Hope you don't mind cuddling, 'cause I'm a burr!"

Sam breathes out the closest thing he has to a laugh, as the man wraps arms around him, surprisingly strong and warm and sturdy.

Very, very different from most of the other men and women Sam has been with.

Sam leaves with the sunrise, and meets Alastair in the basement where they live.

It's a cold and damp location, all concrete and mildew and broken machinery. It's the fourth place they've stayed in the past year since Azazel gifted Sam to Alastair with only the instructions, "Just don't kill him."

It's his least favorite location, if he's totally honest. Wine stains the floor too easily when the glass breaks against the cement. And that's a shame, a shame. But Alastair smiles broad and overly sweet when Sam picks up every little shard and the narrow stem. He says, "Drink it," and he laughs when Sam falls to his knees and licks the wine from the floor.

"Such a greedy boy."

There is wine on Alastair's shoes, so Sam runs his tongue along the leather. Alastair crouches and runs his hand back through Sam's hair. It's getting shaggy, curling into his eyes and past his ears, brushing against the top of his spine if he tilts his head back. Which he does, as he straightens his body and sits on his heels.

Alastair just presses his thumb against Sam's bared throat—pushes down on the soft skin there.

"Silent, silent." A click of his tongue. "Such a tragedy. I would so love to hear your pretty voice."

Sam shakes his head and swallows the last traces of wine in his mouth. Licks it from behind his teeth. Alastair's thumb presses harder—he wraps his fingers around Sam's neck, loosely, gently, almost like a caress, though his thumb still holds pressure. Moves down and pushes at the hollow above Sam's collarbone.

Sam lets out a shallow, hissing breath through his nose.

"July 2nd, 2001. The time is..." Alastair thinks for a moment, as if feeling the atmosphere itself. "8:09... 8:10 am." He stands and pulls Sam up with him and his hand remains around the boy's throat. Fingers brushing against the base of his skull, thumb still bearing down on that soft spot. Harder. He moves into Sam's airspace, like that. Settles his other hand light like a venomous butterfly on Sam's narrow hip. "You are eighteen years and two months old." Tightens his fingers until Sam's breath catches in his throat.

"Fossa jugularis sternalis." He smiles and slides his hand up Sam's side. It catches in the fabric of Sam's shirt for a moment, but only a very short moment. It joins his other hand at Sam's neck and curls together with it, all symmetry and rough fingerprints.

Sam is lightheaded.

"Open your mouth, sweetheart."

Sam does as he is told.

Alastair leans forward, not to kiss Sam, but to breathe his air and hiss it back out—It's like being filled with smoke, especially combined with the dizziness floating through Sam's skull. Alastair's touch, preventing Sam from breathing, simultaneously keeps him oxygenated enough to remain conscious—perks of demonic powers, he supposes. His scalp tingles and his knees weaken, but Alastair holds him up, mouth over mouth, hands like a vice.

"Come, come." Alastair's low mumble is no less discernible despite the proximity of their mouths. He bites Sam's lip and releases him. Sam pulls in a ragged breath—Alastair brushes a finger across his torso and breathing immediately comes easier.

He follows Alastair into the darkest corner of the basement. The coldest, dampest spot. It's where Sam sleeps, most nights, or where he entertains Alastair's thoughtful musings and thirst for knowledge of the inner workings of Sam's body.

The demon's hands are fiery. Where he touches, goosebumps follow, as they are exposed to cool air in the wake of his hot fingerprints. He names off scientific names, as he goes. Bucca, laryngeal prominence, thorax, umbilicus, crista iliaca, et cetera.

"Breathe in," he murmurs against Sam's stomach. So Sam breathes in deeply—allows his belly to rise and his lungs to expand. And Alastair says, "Exhale." So Sam's stomach dips and he lets all of his air out in a long rush.

It's two parts clinical, one part sexual.

Alastair listens to Sam's heart beat and respiration, while his long fingers prod all over and Sam grips the threadbare sheets.

Much too much.

And still, he keeps silent. It's more than habit—it's reflex. It's ingrained. Survival instincts. Alastair can coax him with rotten-sweet words and threats and praise alike, and Sam won't vocalize. He gasps, but his larynx plays no part in whatever breathy sounds he makes, however loud and desperate.

Silence has been instilled in him in such a way that it might never leave.

Alastair doesn't totally mind, though he would like to hear Sam's voice in order to learn more about his body and in order to confirm further domination—dragging just one broken cry from that throat would delight him to no end.

But no.

He focuses, instead, on discovering what, exactly, is required to overstimulate Sam's senses to the point he goes completely limp.

It involves a bit of contortion on Alastair's part, but is worth it in the end.

For the sake of knowledge.


	3. Crushed and Filled

Induced sleep. Definite use of weird demon powers. More sexual stuff. Blood mentioned-not Sam's or anything, though.

* * *

"Name and date of the latest male mate. Location as well, please, princeling." Alastair wraps Sam's hand around the pen, and hands him the little red-covered notebook they listed information in—men and women Sam sleeps with, food he eats, when he uses the bathroom, when he sleeps, where he wanders during his free time.

Sam nods, minutely. Writes slow and neat across the lined paper, careful not to leave anything out.

"Nick, thirty-six, widower. Accompanied by a group of friends, from Pike Creek, Delaware." Alastair pauses. "Height: taller than you." He raises his eyebrows at Sam, who hisses quiet laughter, eyes squinting. Alastair shakes his head. "Quite the little joker, now, hmm?" He snorts. "Build: like a block of cement." Back to Sam. "He sounds very sturdy."

Sam nods again. He tentatively reaches for the pen and paper, and when Alastair relinquishes them, draws a rudimentary picture of a barrel-chested man who looks like he can run through a brick wall. Alastair clicks his tongue. "You know who that is, don't you?"

"No?"

"That man, if I must guess, is the secondary vessel for the Morningstar himself."

Wide eyes, and Sam makes a face like a curious pup. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear and leans close.

"Would I lie to you?"

Sam shakes his head so that his hair flops back into his face.

Alastair chuckles. He pushes Sam's hair back, once more. Leaves his fingers tangled in it as he speaks. "Temporary housing for Lucifer, is what he is. If you are not suitable." He rubs the pads of his thumbs over the jut of Sam's cheekbones. Slips one down across Sam's smooth skin and presses it against his mouth—Sam's lips part and Alastair presses his thumb in, down against Sam's tongue and says, "I plan to make you unsuitable. You are mine, after all, not theirs. Aren't you?"

Eyelids drifting shut, Sam nods for what feels like the hundredth time that day. It's been an afternoon full of questions and words. He wants to go out and sit on a bench and watch the ducks swim by, eating stale cookies from the bag Alastair bought him the day before. He also wants to read more from his book on sign language. He's been teaching himself, and though he only knows a few very simple gestures, it's made communicating with strangers during his free time a lot easier.

Alastair leans into Sam's space, thumb slipping a little deeper, and murmurs, "You are a very tired boy, hm?"

Drooping shoulders and a nod—everything feels hazy, suddenly. Foggy and rimmed in white. Stiflingly warm and almost claustrophobic. Alastair is using his powers, of that Sam is certain. He wishes, somewhat, that he could protest, but he thinks to himself I don't much mind. It's different from Azazel, and it doesn't hurt him. That pleases him.

Alastair may be frightening, and care nothing for personal space—he is a masochist and a sadist and extremely scientific, and he treats Sam like a pampered pet, but he rarely hurts him, and if he does it is often accidental. Not like Azazel and his minions, who put Sam through a hellish boot camp and tortured him until he no longer spoke for fear of heightened pain. (Exactly the desired outcome—they wanted him silent. They gave him pain, and the more noise he made the more pain he received, and eventually, he muted himself and the pain stopped. Speaking is pain; sound is pain. Alastair, however, is... surprisingly... none of that. Despite his reputation as Picasso with a razor.)

"You mustn't think so intently if you want to rest, Sam." Alastair lifts him up in his arms, as easily as if he weighs less than a child. "Do you want some of your cookies?"

Sam shrugs.

Alastair repeats his question—indecision is not tolerated under his guidance.

Sam raises his hand in a knocking motion, for "Yes."

"Alright."

They settle into an old, broken armchair situated in a corner—this is their fifth home: an abandoned house in Wilmington.

Alastair holds Sam on his lap, and feeds him miniature chocolate chip cookies. Any crumbs that break away disappear into thin air before they can land on Sam's clothes, and for some reason they taste a little burnt around the edges. Sam wonders, dazedly, if that is Alistair's doing. Probably. He tends to singe the air itself with his breath.

Sam doesn't want to sleep, but when Alastair lays him out on the mattress, he can't resist the tug of unconsciousness.

When he wakes, the room is dark, and Sam has a headache.

Alastair sits in a rocking chair nearby, staring. Watching over him. It sends a shiver through Sam's limbs. A face-splitting smile from the demon and, "Ah, you're awake." He rocks in the chair, and the rotting wood groans in protest. "Sleep well?"

Rolling onto his stomach, Sam buries his face in his pillow, drawing a laugh from Alastair. He squirms to be more comfortable. Peeks out at Alastair, whose interest is visibly piqued, and bites his lip. Coy expression, mussed hair, wide eyes and rumpled clothes. He wriggles again. Catches Alastair's eye and raises one finger to beckon.

"Eager, aren't you?"

Sam pushes himself onto his back again and lets his legs fall open. His shirt has been pulled up, in the midst of all his twisting, and reveals the stretch of his stomach. He blinks sleepily and lets his hands settle on his chest, fingers lightly curled. He bites his lip harder and tilts his head back to expose his neck.

"If you insist," Alastair rises to his feet and the rocking chair creaks. "I will indulge." He approaches the bed—drops down between Sam's legs, and the springs protest. He slides his hands down Sam's thighs, gripping so he can leave bruises, rearranging Sam so he lays sprawled out—arms above his head on the pillow, legs around Alastair's waist, head thrown back.

Alastair unzips his fly, and he moves.

It's like a reality shift. He doesn't seem to do anything—but Sam's whole body goes lax and he revels in the sensations Alastair sends through him. Careful, methodical caresses, like Alastair is mapping out his veins—and maybe he is. Sam wouldn't be entirely surprised. Alastair is, after all, the type to do that. He derives pleasure from cataloguing Sam's body as much as he derives pleasure from fucking him. Possibly more, actually. Sex seems to be secondary to categorizing Sam.

But it's nice, anyway. Since, by learning about Sam as thoroughly as possible, Alastair has discovered exactly where to push and prod and kiss—he leans forward so Sam is practically curled in half, and he grabs a handful of Sam's hair and pulls, and that feels good. He sucks marks into Sam's neck and keeps the roll of his hips so slow Sam wishes he could beg. Pinches his skin and pins his hands over his head and drawls dark, filthy words into Sam's ears.

Sam loses track of time.

He loses track of himself. Only becomes aware of his existence a long while later, alone in bed.

He stands up and coughs to himself—a step toward speaking, according to Alastair. He says that if Sam starts small with coughs and throat clearing he can become accustomed to making noise once more. Sam thinks he would like that. Would like to relinquish the memories of Azazel and take hold of his vocal cords to say, "I am Sam and I am not your Boy King." But he will have to wait. For now, he stands in the crumbling bathroom of the abandoned house, staring into the mirror, and does mouth exercises. He likes to make faces at himself in the glass.

He hears Alastair's voice in his head: "Associate sound with positive things."

Of course, Alastair is not home. Probably in Hell, doing his full-time job, or out in town somewhere terrorizing innocents. Sam tries not to think about it—knows how lucky he is that Alastair chose to spare him from torture.

Sam shakes his head. He returns to his instructions. Positive things. What positive things are associated with sound? Music. The brass-eyed man calling him beautiful. The reward Alastair gave him when he accidentally squeaked beneath him, once, on his birthday.

What else does he like? He likes cookies and masturbating—not at the same time—and the feel of hotel-room carpet between his toes and sunlight on his skin. Azazel's voice and fingers, and stepping into a cool shower when it's one hundred degrees outside. Watching puppies run. He thinks of those nice things. Coughs lightly and frowned at his reflection. Attempts to say something—he can manage a shallow whisper, but nothing else. "Speak," he breathes. Tightens his fingers on the counter. He remembers that beating himself up over it won't help so he relaxes and shuts his eyes.

One whispered word and a cleared throat is good enough. He eats a cookie and lays naked in bed with the curtains drawn, bathed in sunshine.

Alastair comes home around four, covered in blood. He materializes in Sam's bedroom and begins to speak while he unbuttons his damp, reddened shirt. "Progress?" He drops the shirt to the floor and it disappears when it hits the wooden boards.

Sam raises a fisted hand and sticks his thumb out sideways.

"Better than nothing." Alastair waves a hand over himself and becomes clean. He disappears for a split second and reappears in a new shirt. "Have you rewarded yourself?"

A nod from Sam, who brushes crumbs from his bare chest. He sweeps his hair out of his eyes and sighs.

"Do you want to go outside?"

Another nod.

"Well, get dressed, princeling, and you may choose a movie to see."

Sam grins and sits up, thrilling with excitement. He rarely gets to see movies, so an opportunity like this is one he won't pass up. He drags his clothes on as quick as he can and nearly trips over a loose floorboard in his hurry to follow Alastair downstairs. He takes Alastair's hand, shifting to lean against him as they walk out of the house, and clings close down the sidewalk. Few people are out, and no one pays them any attention.

Sam still feels a little exposed though. He's not used to being out in the open, even though Alastair gives him free time to go out on a regular basis. He's still accustomed to being isolated and locked away, except when he was strapped to Azazel's chair.

He shudders and clears the thought from his mind as best he can.

The sunlight is nice on his skin.

They see _Shrek_, because it's still in theaters and it isn't particularly action-filled. Sam doesn't understand some of the jokes, but many he does, because he's been spending a lot of time reading not only books but also magazines and newspapers, trying to inform himself of everything in the world. _The New York Times_—he likes the crossword, especially—and _Cosmo_, _Harry Potter _and _Good Omens_: he read them all.

Outside the theater, as the sun lowers itself down the sky, Alastair wraps an arm around Sam's waist. "Did you enjoy yourself?" He looks down at Sam.

Sam gives him a wide smile and an enthusiastic nod.

"Good, good."

Alastair pauses.

"Can you say that, my boy?" He leans down. "Try to speak. Say 'good.'"

Sam gets a whisper out. Nothing more.

Alastair sighs, and Sam droops, unhappy. He fixes his eyes on his feet. He doesn't like when Alastair is displeased with his progress, because he just looks so _disappointed_. But Sam is trying. He really is. When his nightmares wake him at two am he tries to hum and when he practices in the mornings he really gives it his all. But it's not quite enough.

Still, Alastair doesn't get angry.

They go home and spend the night as they always do.


	4. And breathe again

(Nothing I feel needs warning in this chapter. Flirting and stuff with "Rick" and Sam. Sam's feeble attempts at ASL.)

* * *

"Do I know you?"

Sam glances up from the bar. He blanches. He would recognize those dollar-coin eyes anywhere. The way they glint, like the man they belong to finds something immensely hilarious but refuses to tell exactly what.

And the matching smirk.

Sam flushes hotly and looks away. The most he can communicate with signs is "You're Rick." Well, he gets as far as, "You're Ric," but gets stuck on the letter K, because he's still pretty shaky on the alphabet. He taps on the bar and nods toward the bartender, face crinkling in confusion. Rick tilts his head, one eyebrow raised, but then his face clears and he grins like a coyote.

"You're confused, 'cause I was a bartender in that town in Ohio?"

Sam nods.

"Well, what can I say? Felt like a change." He shrugs and slides his hands into his pockets, leaning on the bar. "And I guess fate led us to meet once more, eh kiddo?" He winks, and it shouldn't be charming, but somehow it is. In a corny way. He moves a little closer to Sam. Looks him up and down. He says, "How would you feel about a little re-enactment, if you know what I mean?"

With a soft huff, Sam shrugs. He catches Rick's eyes once, and turns away, and blushes 'til his whole face is scarlet. But he ventures another glance, and an embarrassed grin—his dimples show, and he can't help but scoot a little closer to the other man.

Rick looks up at him, all mischief and amusement. He loops his arm through Sam's and tugs him down so he can whisper in his ear. "My hotel room has a killer bed."

Sam almost chokes on his beer.

Rick laughs and leans back. He pats Sam on the back, still smirking, and lets his hand drift up until he has a handful of Sam's hair between his fingers and suddenly they're kissing. But not in the way Sam expects. It's a slow kiss, and surprisingly subdued. Rick tastes like nectarines and honey and blood and chocolate. Intricate and heady—dizzying. Sam reaches up to hold him in place as they kiss. Someone cat-calls from the floor and Sam ignores them. Rick snaps his fingers and for a moment the air crackles and warps, folding in on itself, packing Sam into a cube and then unfolding him again and that's... disorienting, to say the least. He stumbles as a swanky hotel room materializes around him.

Stares in utter shock at Rick, who doubles over laughing.

"Sorry, beansprout! Should have warned you!" His eyebrows wag and he raises his hand. "I'm a trickster!" Another snap, and Sam flinches, expecting another static-y jump, but all that happens is that the lights dim and somewhere in the depths of the room a record starts playing. Marvin Gaye, Sam thinks, but he's not entirely sure. (He tries to be well-versed in music, and researches many different things when he has the chance, but there's a lot of information in the world. In any case it's smooth and not particularly modern.)

"Care for a dance?" Rick smirks.

Sam ignores his question and signs, "I knew you weren't human!" Or, as close as he can get: "Not human, know!" He really needs to study some more. He doesn't understand the grammar of ASL very well and he knows so few words... He widens his eyes to emphasize his point. Rick laughs—and it doesn't seem to be directed at _Sam_ so much as at the situation. He prances over and takes Sam's hands in his own and tugs him down for a quick kiss.

"Your ASL is rudimentary at best, but if you keep it up you'll be a pro in no time." He ruffles Sam's bangs. "But, to make it easier... I could just read your mind, if you want."

Sam immediately shakes his head. He doesn't know how to tell Rick "don't," so he uses "not" instead. Just to further reinforce the fact that he absolutely does not want a stranger looking around in his brain.

"Okay, okay!" Rick grabs his hands again. Laces their fingers together with a cheeky smile. "Don't get your panties in a twist, big boy." A wink. (He winks far too often, in Sam's opinion, but it's kind of endearing.)

Sighing, Sam pushes at Rick. He nods his head toward the (absolutely massive) bed, raising his eyebrows. Rick gets the idea and his grin turns lascivious as he walks backward, towing Sam along with him. They don't fall onto the bed so much as they instantaneously wind up laying on the bed—Sam on top of Rick, Rick on top of the scarlet silk sheets. Which cover a memory foam mattress of some kind. All Sam knows is it gives under his hands and knees in the best way. He forgets to pay attention to Rick and instead prods at the silk-covered mattress curiously. Sponge-y and interesting.

Rick chuckles and waves his hand under Sam's nose. "Earth to Sam," he says. "Come in, Sam—"

Sam swats at his hand, wrinkling his nose. Again, "not," because if he tries to say "stop," he will fall flat on his face and squish Rick.

Rick laughs again. "Testy today, aren't we?"

Sam kisses him to make him stop talking. Rick responds with enough enthusiasm to power a small country—he feels like electricity. Especially when his hands tangle in Sam's shaggy hair and his legs wrap around Sam's waist. Sam presses him down into the squishy mattress. It doesn't creak, like he's used to. Just gives and molds around Rick's body. So strange. But Sam likes it. It's nice to plant his elbows against while he bites at Rick's jaw.

Surprisingly, they don't have sex.

Rick says, "No." He nudges Sam away, pushes him down onto his back with ease, and sits on his stomach. He crosses his arms and looks down at Sam, eyes narrowed. "What do you say," he murmurs. "You and I watch some movies instead?"

Confused, Sam frowns, eyebrows pulling together and making his forehead wrinkle.

"No, no, it's okay—" Rick leans down a drops a quick kiss on Sam's mouth. "I'm not trying to let you down gently or anything. I'm just... not in the _mood_, you know?"

There's something else he isn't saying. Sam wishes he could ask exactly what, but... Limited communication. So he stares at Rick instead, wide-eyed and pouting. That face always gets people going—Alastair says it's Sam's "kicked dog" face, and it really is. So endearing, so innocently heartbroken. Or so Sam hopes.

"You stop that!" Rick pretends to glare at him. "Even _I_ am not completely immune to puppy-dog eyes." He rolls off of Sam, and off of the bed as well, jumping to his feet. He wanders over to the large flat-screen TV facing the bed and picks up the remote, twirling it in his hands. The music that has been playing slowly dies off—though, seemingly not because of the remote, considering Rick hasn't pressed a single button. He shrugs. Tosses the remote aside. The TV flicks on by itself. Sam jumps. Rick laughs.

They end up snuggled together on the bed watching reruns of _The Twilight Zone_, which Rick apparently knows by heart, word for word. He recites each line perfectly, and Sam thinks it's one of the silliest things he's seen, but he enjoys it. Even though he falls asleep halfway through the fifth episode.

Sam wakes up curled against a pillow. For a moment, he's afraid he's been left completely alone, but he hears singing, and looks up to see Rick sitting at the little table nearby, eating a croissant and drinking coffee, humming and singing random bars from a song Sam doesn't know. All he catches are the words, "you are the apple of my eye, forever you'll stay in my heart."

At first, Rick doesn't notice Sam. But when Sam stretches, Rick stops singing and looks at him with a broad grin and squinty eyes. "You're a real cutie, you know?" He's teasing, and Sam knows it, but he's also completely telling the truth—he obviously thinks Sam is adorable. And Sam's not sure how he ought to feel about that. Flattered? Embarrassed? He seems to be experiencing a little bit of both. So he looks away and buries his face in the pillows and blushes.

"Awww," Rick laughs, but it's soft and even a little kind. "_Someone's_ bashful."

Sam flips him off, which only elicits more laughter.

"C'mon, now." Rick leaves his spot at the table and is at Sam's side much more quickly than should be possible, so Sam assumes he's bent space or time or something. He peeks out from the pillows, to see Rick crouched beside the bed, still grinning. Rick pokes Sam's nose. "You're a good kid, huh?"

The bedding rustles as Sam sits up, tilting his head. His nose wrinkles and his eyebrows knit together. He stares at Rick.

"Like—" Rick sighs. He shoves at Sam, and climbs into bed beside him. He takes a moment to gather himself. "You're, what? Eighteen? I know you're not old enough to drink—I'm amazed you can get into bars even with that fake ID." He notices Sam's scandalized expression and snorts. "You can't seriously think everyone _believes_ you're twenty-one?"

Sam rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

"Anyway," Rick thinks for a moment. "Right. You're this eighteen year old kid, sleeping around with older men and women, and you apparently move a lot. You can't speak and you can barely use sign language so I'm going to assume you either don't have access to any kind of consistent education—which, considering how often you obviously skip from town to town is probably true—or that you have shitty parents, which might also be true. Or maybe it's just a very recent condition."

Sam nods. Raises his fist in that simple knocking motion.

"Yes? Yes, what?"

Sam widens his eyes and raises his eyebrows. Waves his arm around vaguely.

"All of it? All three?"

Another nod.

"Bad education, bad parenting, and recent. How recent? Sixteen?"

He shakes his head at Rick.

"How old?"

Sam gives him this _look_. This look that says, "seriously?"

"Okay, okay. I get it. Jesus, this would be easier if you'd let me read your mind." But at that, Sam glared. So Rick let out a sigh. "I'm assuming between ten and seventeen?" Rick settles more comfortably on the bed, and Sam nods at him. He clears his throat and squints at Sam. "Fifteen?" No. "Fourteen?" No. "Twelve?"

Vigorous nodding, and Sam grabs his hand.

"You've been unable to talk since you were _twelve_?"

Nodding.

"Wow."

Sam shrugs.

"Six years, and you don't know more ASL than a five year old?" Rick frowns. "I guess your parents really do suck—parent? I've seen you around, with some tall guy. A demon."

Sam stares.

"What?" Rick shrugs. "I know a demon when I see one, kid." He smirks and leans his head on Sam's shoulder. "He's a demon, for sure. A powerful one, too. But... you don't seem any worse for the wear? Does he... What is he, to you? Not actually your father, surely?"

Sam shakes his head. He pulls away from Rick to grab the little pad of paper and pen on the bedside table. Settles down again and begins to write. It takes up a sheet and a half, but he thinks he's got a good explanation of his relationship with Alastair and how it came about. He hands it to Rick.

As Rick reads, his expression darkens. He looks unhappy. He crumples the paper into a ball and tosses it across the room—it vanishes before it hits the ground. Rick turns to face Sam more fully. "Sam," He takes Sam's hand, and Sam realizes he's never told Rick his name. But he listens to Rick speak.

"Sam, I know he's not physically hurting you, but I think you should find a way to leave."

What? Sam doesn't understand. He signs so.

Rick just shakes his head and sighs.


	5. Innocence is burned

Warning for messy blood drinking (from a jar), resulting in a pretty heavily altered state of mind. More sexual stuff, dubious consent due to Sam beginning to be under the influence of (not demon) blood. Bit of a bad trip not long after. Slightly edited.

* * *

Sam spends much of the night pondering Rick's words. He lays in the bed as he records their meeting on the pad of paper, and later rolls onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. He sighs. Makes a tiny sound, just to see if he can, and grins when it comes out as a squeak. He realizes that whispering is just breath and tongue, and he's disappointed that he never noticed before. So simple, and yet... He breathes a few words to himself—vocabulary, and snippets of the alphabet.

While he's murmuring to himself, Alastair appears. He's clean, this time, but agitated. He snatches the notepad from the bedside table, reads it over quickly, and glowers. "You've been with this man before, 500 miles back." He settles his gaze, sunken and dark, on Sam. "Strange coincidence."

Sam makes a strained squeak again, eyebrows drawn together, eyes wide.

It seems to pacify Alastair—the puppy face always works, anyway, but the sound probably helps as well—because he sets the notebook aside and sighs, sitting beside Sam on the bed. He strokes Sam's hair back from his head. "Making progress, are we?"

His hand trails down the side of Sam's face, long fingers framing his cheek, heel of his palm pressing lightly under Sam's chin. Sam nods and tilts his head into Alastair's touch. Alastair sighs something about needing to sacrifice someone—the name of whom Sam doesn't catch—and abruptly vanishes. Sam flinches.

He lays around, bored out of his mind, for hours before he finally just falls asleep in his clothes.

When Alastair materializes soundlessly beside Sam's bed, covered in blood like the other night, he shakes Sam awake with the low snarl of his name. He pulls Sam to his feet, shoving his duffel bag into his arms, and growls, "We're moving locations."

Sam, still half-asleep and disoriented, squints, but nods.

Then Alastair's hand is upon him and the world is melting.

They're in a motel room. Nicer than usual, and clearly neither abandoned nor poorly maintained. Red light filters in through the sheer white curtains and bathes the half-dark room in bleeding shadows. On the nightstand beside the single bed, an alarm clock throws sickly green letters out—2:20.

Alastair steers Sam to the bathroom, rather than the bed. He says, "We don't want to make a mess."

Sam finds that odd. But he lets himself be moved, and when Alastair instructs him to strip down, he doesn't bat an eyelash. That's something he's used to. When Alastair picks him up and sets him in the tub, he makes a face and tilts his head, but doesn't question him. Not when Alastair rolls up his sleeves and picks up a glass jar of strangely luminescent blood—it isn't any different from normal blood that Sam can tell but on the edges of his vision it just seems to glisten like stardust—and not when Alastair leans close and murmurs, "First we will drink. Next time we will inject. And compare."

The bathroom light buzzes as Alastair leans forward and holds the jar to Sam's mouth. Sam understands why he's naked in the tub now, because the jar is heavy and solid and its mouth is too wide to allow for neatness.

Blood spills from the sides, and drips down his chin and neck, and splatters the bathtub and Sam's thighs, and it's very, very warm. Hot, even. In a different way from Alastair's hands—Alastair's fingertips burn like brands but the heat of this blood is like a flash of sunlight under Sam's skin.

Sam has trouble focusing on his surroundings.

He feels only a few things—Alastair's hand on the back of his neck, the freezing porcelain of the bathtub against the skin of his back and bottom and thighs and feet, and the deep warmth of blood everywhere else, overflowing. It's strange. Strangely pleasant. Absorbing his attention.

And then it's gone. Empty jar. Sam frowns and tries to get as much out as he can, going so far as to run his tongue along slick glass. But of course, it's not much use. His face contorts into a wide-eyed pout as he moves his attention to Alastair, who stares, rapt. Sam holds his arms out and tries to look as innocent and sad as possible—he knows how to work his assets.

Alastair sets the jar to the side and leans over a little to pull Sam into his arms, uncaring of the blood that rubs away onto his dress shirt. He lifts Sam against him and carries him out of the bathroom, toward the bed. He pauses for a moment, and seems to come to a decision before he sets Sam down on the sheets. He turns his attention away.

Sam amuses himself for a moment by wiping the blood from his thighs and face and sucking it from his fingers. It smears red across his skin and he thinks that looks nice.

But finally Alastair turns back to him, so he smiles and whispers "Hi."

"A little late for a hello, don't you think, princeling?" Alastair kneels beside Sam on the mattress and leans down. He runs his tongue up the curve of Sam's throat and along his jaw, hissing as leftover traces of blood come in contact with his skin. It clearly burns him, and he clearly doesn't mind one bit. Maybe even enjoys it, judging by the way he lays himself across Sam as he kisses at his face. He snarls, too, and presses Sam into the sheets with hands and mouth until Sam's breath starts to come faster.

Alastair tangles his fingers in Sam's shaggy hair and pulls, tugging Sam's head back and baring his throat. Sam arches beneath him. He gasps and pulls at Alastair's shirtsleeves when Alastair bites his throat. Not hard enough to break skin, or even to hurt, but just hard enough to feel threatening in the most thrilling way.

Sam squirms.

Alastair pins him down and all but ruts against him—an unprecedented loss of control and yet he remains so composed and shadowy and smooth. It's never been like this before, never so... alive. Normally it's much more clinical, but there is Alastair, running his spider fingers down Sam's sides and nipping at his neck and murmuring, "Good boy, good boy."

That makes Sam's face go hot and his heart rate quicken.

Everything escalates.

He can't see entirely straight. Something is affecting his vision and he can't think coherently enough to figure out whether it's the blood he drank or the feel of Alastair's tongue on his skin or something else entirely. But the air is warped and he's hyper-sensitive and he can't hold still. The sheets feel like petals against his bare back. The red light through the curtains paints everything it can reach, while dark blue shadows fill the remaining spaces—Alastair's face is part blood and part smoke. Sam can't actually see Alastair's features. Only the white flash of his smile and the glint of his eyes like polished stones.

The mattress creaks under Sam and his eyelids flutter as Alastair runs his fingers up and down Sam's side. Up, to briefly wrap around his neck before loosening again and moving to push Sam's hair out of his face. Down his stomach and between his legs and across his ribs and along the insides of his thighs.

Alastair examines and caresses Sam's skin for a while, and this is more familiar territory.

He pulls Sam apart piece by piece with long, slender fingers, until Sam writhes on the sheets.

Sam draws sharp breaths in through his nose. Lets his eyes fall shut and gathers handfuls of scratchy-smooth cotton in his hands, toes curling, head thrown back and throat stretched taut as he swallows his silence.

Alastair praises him.

Later, in the black depths of the room, Sam finds it very difficult to sleep. The red light through the windows cast strange shadows on the stucco ceiling and the pale wallpaper. Little flickery monsters out to get him, reaching out from behind valleys of paint. He buries his face in his pillow and drags his blankets up to cover himself and presses his hands to his ears to drown out the buzzzzz of the lights, just barely audible through the closed windows.

The room is so quiet. He hears the rush of voices in his head that he hasn't experienced since he was a small child—deafening but muffled, a hundred people shouting and whispering and murmuring all at once, unintelligible and terrifying.

He pulls the blankets tighter around himself.

His stomach feels bloated, and his throat is on fire, and no matter how tightly he shuts his eyes he sees a harsh blue light, rolling and dense like sheets of illuminated fog.

And then it stops.

His skin retains a faint electric sensation—sensitive to anything that touches it, so even the soft cotton sheets feel like they're rough and crudely made. Sam touches his face, and finds it wet. He runs his fingers down his damp cheek and the touch is not painful but it's almost unpleasant, like his nerve endings have been exposed to the open air, and he can feel each ridge of his fingerprints against his jaw. He shivers.

Everything in the room holds a faint blue edge, especially in the dark shadows where the red cannot reach. Sam tumbles from bed, unsteady on his feet, and makes his way on tingling toes to the bathroom—it's like his body is all pins and needles. He locks himself in the bathroom and sinks to the floor. The tiles are freezing on his bare butt and thighs, and everything is glowing a little.

Sam runs his hands along his arms. There's a cut on his elbow that he's been picking at for a few days—except it's gone. He rubs the spot and it's far smoother than it should be. Slowly, unsteadily, he stands, and flicks the light on, squeezing his eyes at the sudden brightness. He blinks away the discomfort and looks down at his elbow. Perfectly smooth.

Other than the few remnants of dried blood flaking from around his mouth and thighs, there's nothing to indicate injuries—not from when he fell and scraped his knee the day before yesterday, not from when he bumped his head on the bedframe at their old place... Nothing.

"Shouldn't you be asleep, young man?"

Sam nearly jumps out of his skin at Alastair's voice. He turns to see the tall demon standing in the doorframe, outlined in red shadows, face not quite corporeal. He hadn't been there before. Sam blinks at him. He shakes his head and holds out his arms, swaying slightly.

Alastair leads Sam into the bedroom by one wrist. He tucks Sam beneath the sheets, stroking his face, murmuring softly, and kisses Sam's forehead. "I understand you're still under the influence of the angel blood, but try to sleep, sweetheart." He uses his fingertips to close Sam's eyes, and they burn hot against the thin skin of Sam's eyelids.

Angel blood...?

Sam has little time to ponder the information before he's sliding into thick unconsciousness.


	6. Streets are uneven

"Well, well, well..." Rick smiles as if he knows something Sam doesn't. (There's not a doubt in Sam's mind that he does.) "Fancy seeing you here."

Sam tilts his head.

He's not in a bar, this time. Rather, near the market. Sitting on the boardwalk by the water and watching the seagulls go by, with Rick standing just beside him.

Rick sits down on the bench beside Sam and crosses his legs. "You know," he says. "I can smell it on you." He doesn't look at Sam. Just keeps his eyes on the waterfowl, leaning back on his palms.

Sam frowns. He manages a squeaky noise that sounds somewhat questioning.

"The blood."

Sam's jaw tightens and he looks away. How should he take this information? He grasps the side of the bench between his fingers until his knuckles go white and swallows down a sudden nervousness. The sun shines brightly down, and it seems incongruously warm for the subject matter. He breathes a bit and decides to whisper, "What do you mean?" Play it innocent. Probably futile, though, with how tense he is, and with the fact that they both know Rick isn't human. Both know Sam can't lie to him.

A snort. "You know what I mean." Rick finally looked at Sam. His eyes flash gold. "It's in you. It leaves traces. It's powerful stuff, angel blood. Like paranormal meth, or something. I dunno, I'm not really sure how meth works. Anyway." He raises his hand and snaps his fingers, and they're in an empty train. He leans back in his feet and props his feet on the footrest. "I'd advise you to stay away from the stuff. It's about as bad as demon blood as far as bad trips go—probably worse, actually. Angels are always worse." He laughs.

Sam worries his bottom lip between his teeth and folds his hands in his lap.

The train whistles, as it curves along the track, tilting inward. Sam lets gravity press him against the window. He wishes he could say something, but not even a whisper escapes him. He feels frozen in space. Scared. Of what? He doesn't know.

"Hey." Rick reaches out to touch Sam's arm, and Sam flinches. Rick's expression softens. "Sam. It's okay."

He receives an incredulous look from Sam.

"I'm serious! Jeez, you're so jumpy."

A rather more baffled expression.

"Okay, okay." Rick pats Sam's shoulder. "Just hear me out." He pauses to make sure Sam is sufficiently rapt, and stares at him for a moment. "I know your dad—Okay, no, that sounds creepy—I know your demon benefactor has you all Stockholm'd up, but listen to me, kiddo. You do_ not_ want to get into that shit. It's like an enema for your soul, but with hallucinations and addiction and... stuff. Sure, it'll heal you and like... cleanse you or something weird like that, but man, it's not worth it. Trust me."

Sam points at Rick, questioningly. "Trust you?" he mouths. Raises his eyebrows

"Yes. _Trust_ me." Rick stabs himself in the chest with his index finger.

Sam rolls his eyes.

"You don't?"

Sam makes this face like he's just been asked the stupidest question on the planet, open mouth and creased forehead and wide eyes, because _of course_ he doesn't trust Rick. He barely knows the guy—he slept with him once and knows a probably false name and knows he's not even human. So, no, he doesn't trust him. He shakes his head. Twists his mouth and wrinkles his nose. He looks back out the window, at the broad river the train is passing over.

Rick laughs, mostly through his nose. Not a pleased or amused laugh. Just this rush of air, mildly bitter. "No, of course you don't. Why would you? It was ridiculous of me to think you would, considering how you've been... brought up."

A glare.

"Hey, hey, no harm, no foul." Rick raises his hands. "I only meant... I don't know what I meant. Just be careful, kid. I worry about you."

And then he snaps his fingers and he's gone.

Seriously? Sam droops in his seat. He doesn't even know where this train is going, or where it comes from, or even what country it might be clicking through. He could be in Amsterdam, for all he knows. But he looks up at the little television set near the ceiling of the train car, and it shows a map, and he's actually not far from his current home. He might be a little late to get there, but he's on his way to the right city. So Rick's not a _total_ jerk for leaving him.

Eventually, as the sun begins to set, the train sways to a stop. Shudders, and a woman in a uniform walks through the car calling out the station's name, and opens the door onto the platform. Sam hops out, declining her white-gloved hand—he can get off himself. She still seems worried. So he makes as soft an expression as he knows, and signs, "I'm fine."

She doesn't know sing language, clearly, but she seems appeased, for the most part, and doesn't try to ask him any questions or take him anywhere.

Sam makes his way into the station.

The ceiling is high and vaulted and white, and the floor is slick and shiny, a mosaic of half-glittering tiles. The benches are wooden and people sleep on them, or sit uncomfortably, staring vacantly with buds in their ears or phones in their hands. Sam walks past them all and out onto the street, through the glass and brass doors. Buildings loom above. He's new to this city, and it's large and intimidating. He looks at the watch on his wrist. The numbers stare at him, black against green. It's past nine o'clock. His curfew was an hour ago. (Out at any time of day past ten am, back by eight or earlier, out to bars from ten to midnight. In bed by one in the morning unless he goes home with someone. On weekends, he stays indoors.)

He sighs and sets off on foot. He's hungry, and he's already late, so he stops to buy a sandwich and eats it as he walks through the steep streets of Seattle. He wonders, briefly, what Alastair will do when he gets home. He decides that can wait. It's unlikely to be anything particularly unpleasant, other than no books or television. He's been grounded before and it's nothing much. He shrugs. Keeps plodding on, keeping close to buildings and lit areas, never down empty streets. He gets turned about once but eventually finds himself at the entrance to the Hyatt they're staying at, and takes the elevator up to floor six. (Their hotel room number is 666, and Sam doesn't know if it's some kind of cosmic irony or if Alastair did it on purpose.)

He uses his keycard to get in, and Alastair is standing in front of the window, looking down on the city, with the curtains pulled wide. He doesn't turn as Sam closes the door behind him. Merely says, gently, "You're very late, dearheart."

Sam sits on one of the beds and looks down at his feet. He attempts to look as pitiful as possible.

"Why so late?" Alastair sits across from him, leaning his elbows against his thighs and catching Sam's eye. "Did you get lost?"

Sam nods.

"You went out farther than you were supposed to, I take it." Long fingers reach out, and press lightly against Sam's jaw. Alastair turns his face side to side and murmurs, "There is a conference in town and I had hoped to have you take to the bar, but I think I'll have to keep you inside for a little while. How far did you go? You smell like a train."

Averting his eyes, Sam shrugs. He knows he seems suspicious, but he doesn't care. Alastair won't hurt him.

Alastair raises his eyebrows. He stands and sighs heavily. "Sit in the armchair."

Sam does as he's told. It's a comfortable armchair, situated at an angle away from the window, by a lamp. He lays his hands on the armrests and leans his head back, watching Alastair. Alastair draws the curtains, briefly peeking out at the now-settled darkness. He stops by Sam for a moment. Tucks a stray strand of hair behind the boy's ear.

"You are to sit there until I bring you breakfast in the morning. Two bathroom breaks, at one and at seven. You may change into your pajamas if you feel the need. No distractions, no entertainment, no touch, and you will not sleep." Alastair steps back about a foot. "You understand?"

Sam nods. He expected something slightly less unpleasant, but hey. It's not so bad. Discomfort and sleep deprivation, he can live with. At least he's allowed to use the bathroom. (Most likely because Alastair would rather not take the time to deal with soiled clothing and furniture, despite how simple and quick it would be for him to clean up. Sam is thankful for the demon's general laziness.)

Alastair places his keycard in the slot by the door, so the lights remain on, and settles on one of the beds with a book in hand.

It takes an hour before Sam starts to fidget. He scratches his nose, and sighs. His jeans have begun to dig into his knees, and he's uncomfortable in general, in the clothes he's been wearing all day. Finally he stands and strips out of his clothing. Is quick to grab his pajamas from on top of the bed, though maybe not so quick in putting them on. He pauses to stretch before his puts his shirt on.

Alastair ignores him.

He frowns and sits down again.

By midnight, he's bored out of his skull and Alastair has left the room, taking his keycard so the lights go out after a while of no movement . When he'd closed the door behind him, a force had settled down on Sam, and now it pins his limbs. He can move a tiny bit—twitches of his toes and fingers and nose—but can't lift his arms or legs, or stand. He's held in place, in the dark. It irritates him, mostly because his butt's falling asleep and he needs to pee.

When one rolls around, the hold releases and Sam feels suddenly lighter. He definitely doesn't run to the bathroom. Maybe he walks faster than normal. And when he's done, and sits back down in the armchair, the weight settles on him harder than before. He's tired, too, but his eyes won't close for longer than a blink, so even though they itch, Sam has to stare at the black-shadowed wall, or the bed, or the slight illumination from the curtained window. He lets out a slow breath. Leans his head back and looks up at the ceiling. He wishes he could hum, but his voice is still so hard to coax out that he really can't manage more than every few notes, fragile and barely audible. Not to mention, what notes he does manage are severely off-key. He frowns. If Alastair was in the room, he would use his puppy-dog face. Probably pout and squirm to try and get some leniency. But he's not there. Oh well.

By five, Alastair still hasn't returned, and Sam has to pee again but he's got two hours left until he's allowed, and he's hungry and exhausted in the kind of way that makes him want to cry. And that makes him feel silly. But he's been up for over twenty hours and he just wants to lay down and close his eyes and maybe eat an entire pan of something hot.

No such luck, of course.

He sniffles. Ridiculous. And he can't lift his arms to rub his itchy, watering eyes. Despite the simplicity and relative innocuousness of his punishment, Sam definitely never wants to break his curfew ever again. The sun has begun to rise, and it colors the sheer curtains with a slight golden tint, and brightens Sam's corner of the room somewhat. He watches a little square of light slowly sink down the walls with the upward movement of the sun.

At six, Alastair walks into the hotel room. He ignores Sam, and lays on the far bed, and takes out his book.

At seven, Sam can't help himself, and runs to the bathroom the moment the weight lifts. He splashes his face with cold water before walking out into the room as slowly as he can. He shuffles past the beds with hunched shoulders and pathetic expression on his face. He flops into the chair and wishes he could close his eyes, desperately. Instead he glares at Alastair.

No acknowledgement, of course.

It's not until nine that Alastair stands, and stretches, and disappears. He reappears minutes later with a paper bag and says, "Alright, little prince. You can get up now. I brought you some muffins."

Sam hauls himself to his feet and moves toward Alastair—Alastair holds out the bag, but Sam chooses to bury his face in the demon's neck. He wraps his arms around his shoulders and sniffs, pitifully. Alastair makes a gentle cooing sound, lifting Sam up, and carries him to the bed.

"Darling boy," he murmurs. "You're certainly sleepy aren't you?"

He sets the brown paper bag of muffins aside and lays down beside Sam, who rubs at his eyes. Alastair curls around Sam, almost protectively, and strokes his hair with soft, reassuring noises. He soothes Sam. Lulls him into repetitive calmness, until everything drops away and Sam is floating off into a dreamless unconsciousness, glowing and cool.


	7. On your neck

Warning for needle/syringe use for the injection of demon blood.

* * *

Sam wakes to bright sunlight, alone. Well, not alone in the room. Just alone in the bed. Alastair is sitting in the armchair, with a syringe in one hand. He turns it about in the sun. It's full of what definitely looks like blood. Sam's throat constricts at the sight of it. He's distracted by his stomach growling, though. Sits up and rubs his face and looks at the clock—four in the afternoon. He sighs. He's starving.

He eats all three muffins Alastair had brought, and crumples the bag. Tosses it in the trash and sits back on his feet. He wants more to eat, but he doesn't particularly want to ask for more.

Alastair looks at Sam. "Come here." He gestures.

Sam slides off of the bed and pads over—he feels a little sleepy, still, but clear-headed and somewhat energized. He sits in Alastair's lap and tilts his head, questioning. Alastair runs the fingers of his free hand down the pale, soft inside of Sam's arm, and straightens it out until Sam's elbow joint locks. For a moment, he lingers on the delicate green lines of Sam's veins. Then he circles his fingers tightly around Sam's arm, a little painfully, and raises his syringe.

"Sam," he murmurs. "This might pinch a little."

It _does_ pinch. Sam wrinkles his nose at the sharp pain of the needle. He frowns, too, as foreign blood enters his system. He feels a little unbalanced—weighted to one side. His whole arm feels strange. But Alastair kisses his the crook of his elbow, setting the syringe to the side, and swipes his thumb over the dark bead of blood that's formed where he pricked Sam. He holds his finger to Sam's mouth, and Sam licks the little bit of redness away.

"Are you still hungry, pet?"

The answer is, of course, yes, so Sam nods.

Alastair reaches into the bag at his feet—Sam hadn't noticed it before—and pulls out another bag. Clear plastic, perforated, and full of small, mottled pink Muscat grapes. He wraps one arm around Sam's waist and with his free hand he plucks a grape from it stem and feeds it to Sam. One at a time, little dusk-colored fruits. Sam devours them. Even nibbles a little at Alastair's fingertips, just for the feeling of something between his teeth.

The flavor of the grapes grows more intricate, the more he eats, and he begins to feel that fuzzy, static sensation in his extremities. He shifts on Alastair's lap. Reality sort of slides along in his vision, so for a moment the world smears like it moves too fast to catch, and then it steadies. The light through the window becomes diffuse and somehow solid in appearance. Gold bars that brush along everything and dye Alastair's edges. Sam sighs—not unhappily. He plays with Alastair's hand for a moment, pushing against the fleshy center of his palm.

After a moment, Sam ducks his head and closes his mouth around Alastair's fingers, hot to the touch and still slightly damp with juice from the grapes.

Alastair pulls his hand away. "Not right now, princeling." He stands, lifting Sam in his arms, and moves to the bed. "I'd rather observe today." He lays Sam out on the sheets and runs his fingers down his side. Pats his belly and says, "Do whatever else you'd like, though." He pauses a moment. Lets his hand rest against Sam's stomach for a few seconds. "You've gained some weight. That's good."

He smiles, and it seems to slide off his face.

Sam chews on his lip and blinks slowly. Heavily. He reaches down and laces his fingers with Alastair's. But Alastair steps away. Sam pouts but he closes his eyes and stretches with a tiny squeak. He wilts into the sheets, entranced by the blue glow behind his eyelids and the texture of the blankets. He blinks his eyes open. Glances at Alastair's molten form, darted with gold and blue, and tilts his head. He squirms out of his clothes and tosses them to the side. Burrows into the sheets and blankets of the hotel bed. Grabs one of the extra pillows and curls around it, hugging it to his stomach.

Alastair watches.

He sits in the armchair with a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other, and watches Sam do almost nothing.

Sometimes Sam shifts, mostly he stays still. He likes his little warm cocoon. The threads feel interesting on his bare skin, and the shadows make faces, and the depths smell like laundry detergent and Sam's sweat.

Sam peeks out at Alastair from his blanket burrito. Alastair waves at him, and his fingers blur interestingly. Sam grins. Then Alastair's face goes skeletal and ethereal and Sam shies back into his cocoon, hiding his eyes behind a fold of blanket. He chances a brief glance back out, and sees nothing out of the ordinary other than a deep frown and the traces of blue specters flitting at the edges of his vision. But the longer he looks, the more things distort. There's the grinning skull face again, as Alastair speaks, and the specters solidify into half-formed words and figures.

Sam blinks, and they disappear again.

"Can you hear me, boy?"

Sam gives his head a shade and nods.

"Right." Alastair crosses his legs, ankle over knee, and folds his fingers together after setting aside his notepad. He eyes Sam. Remains silent for a moment longer before saying, "You seem shaken."

Sam shrugs under his covers.

Alastair moves from the chair to the bed, and pulls the sheet back from Sam's face. "This would be much simpler, I imagine, if you were able to speak more readily." He covers Sam's eyes with his spidery hand and hums to himself. Shifts and presses his fingertips to Sam's forehead. He's silent for a little while.

Then, "Ahh..." He draws away, but remains beside Sam, ignoring Sam's slight trembles. "The blood allows you to see my true face, among other things." He almost laughs. "If you were to step outside, you would see the silhouette of at least one reaper, and the shadows of many ghosts." He draws Sam into his arms. Leans against the headboard, with Sam half in his lap, and pets Sam's hair. "The world is much larger than it seems."

Sam huddles close to Alastair.

He blinks often, until the effects wear off past nightfall.

Alastair allows him to cling close through the night, stroking his hair and back. Soothing and repetitive.

Sam sleeps, and Alastair murmurs about dosage and frequency under his breath like a lullaby.


	8. That rushes skin

Sam doesn't see Rick for a very long time. The next time they meet is the first time Sam leaves indoors under the influence of angel blood.

Sam walks along the sidewalk of the ramshackle, tiny town they're staying in. He's past twenty now and hasn't seen Rick, or anyone other than the few strangers he and Alastair interact with, since he was eighteen. He's used to being alone, though. Or accompanied by only Alastair. They've slowly been working up a schedule for angel blood—no injections. Sam drinks it. Once a month, then twice a month, then once a week. Every three days. This is the cycle they're on. He drank it on Wednesday and now it's Saturday night and he's filled up again, and Alastair's allowed him to leave the flickering glow of the motel room.

There's no chance that Alastair isn't monitoring him, somehow, but Sam enjoys the opportunity to wander outside, though he feels unsteady as his surroundings distort somewhat. (He's built some mild tolerance, but still, nothing holds quite still and everything emanates that blue aura and in the edges of his vision he sees ghostly figures.)

Sam walks through a tunnel under a train bridge—it's not a long tunnel, but the lights embedded in the concrete seem to converge into each other and sway from the ceiling. Sam closes his eyes as he walks. He can do that and not worry. He sees a strange imprint of his surroundings. A spectral map, like stars poked into the darkness. And it doesn't shift around like the real world does.

He trails his fingers along the damp concrete of the tunnel, taking in the sensation of ridged, dripping stone. Goosebumps sprout along his bare arms and he shivers.

When he leaves the tunnel, he looks up at the sky. The moon opens a mouth it shouldn't have and bares fangs of clouds and plane lights, and Sam looks away. He doesn't want to be devoured. The ground, though, isn't much better. The wet grass gleams like steel blades and the crumbled gravel under his feet glows like blue embers. The slight breeze pinches at Sam's skin. He hunches his shoulders. He turns a corner and ignores the gray man in a suit standing mere feet away—ignores his creased and wrinkled face and his bony hands and sunken, hollow eyes. He ignores the wispy ghosts that hover just in the sides of his peripheral vision, as well.

As he walks, something in the sky shines. A pillar of light. Sam tilts his head. This is... odd. It reminds him of Alastair, but a different tone. Clearer, harsher, less wild and more... slick. Reminds him of a river. He pokes his head around the corner of a building and sees a short man kneeling in front of a homeless woman. The man is unremarkable, if familiar, but from his back bursts a towering pillar of blue-white light. A twisted, massive structure of lightning undulating like myriad streams of water, rustling, feather-like and beastly. Stretches into the sky further than Sam can see. A beacon. It mirrors the short man's movements as he straightens and turns.

"—Rick?" Sam's voice is small and hoarse, but it is steady and living. (Though he still has trouble making much noise, day-to-day, and avoids conversation with people.)

Rick's eyes widen. "Sam?" He jogs over, then stops, slowly, a few feet from Sam. His eyes narrow and he takes on a defensive air. A cat, bristling. The structure of light that surrounds and stems from him rustles and stiffens. Wings, it seems. He mutters, "Sam, what did I tell you?"

"What—" Sam thinks. He remembers the last time he saw Rick, on the train to Seattle, and Rick's warning not to mess with angel blood. He frowns. "What would I do? Fight him? Resist?" Sam shakes his head, drawing his eyebrows together, setting his shoulders. "I can't. I don't _want_ to."

"Sam—"

"Who are you?"

Rick goes carefully blank-faced. Stands straighter and stares cold. His lightning-river wings curl about him and he crosses his arms.

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Angel?"

A curse. Then, "Yeah, okay?" Rick rolls his eyes. "I bet you can tell 'cause you're drinking down angels all the damn time, huh?" He gives a sharp sigh and rubs his face. Breathes in deep through his nose. "Listen, Sam. The world is not a good place right now. Seals and torture and Righteous Men, and all that bullshit. Just... You gotta back off. I know he's a demon. I know he takes care of you. I know you love him, or you think you do. But, Sam... Please."

Sam avoids Rick's eyes. He whispers, because it's easier and he knows Rick will still hear him. "Who _are_ you?"

Bitter laughter. "Always tenacious when you wanna know something, huh?" Rick smiles. Frowns, and closes his eyes for half a second. He looks up at the black sky, where his wings and his limbs and his eyes and his vicious claws stretch and weave and morph through each other, so different from his vessel. He sighs again. "I'm Gabriel, if you really gotta know. Gabriel. Messenger. All that."

"Gabriel...?"

"Yup."

Sam watches him for a moment. "Gabriel, it's complicated. It's not just an addiction I can go to rehab for—it's barely an addiction. It's only an addiction while it's in my mouth. And listen, I don't _like_ it. I have nightmares. I see things I'd rather not see, and my senses overload, and I have to cling to the monster that I'm scared of, 'cause he goes so warped in the face when I'm on this shit but he's all I get for comfort. It's weird stuff. But..." Sam shrugs. "He's not really... harming me. I mean, this stuff heals me. Even when I hide from stuff under the bed, it heals me."

Rick—Gabriel—just nods. He nods and he looks at the storefronts and he breathes resignation with every inhale and exhale, unnecessary. He closes his eyes and licks his lips, and he walks close, and he takes Sam's face in his hands and his lightning tendrils.

"Sam."

Softly, Sam leans down and kisses Gabriel.

"You're taller, Sam."

Sam laughs, scratchy. "Maybe you're just shorter." He ignores the three Reapers converging on the homeless woman's neighbor as he speaks. "Maybe I finally hit a growth spurt."

"You're still built like a noodle." Gabriel grasps Sam's bony wrists, one in each hand, and holds up his long arms. Moves his fingertips to Sam's disproportionately broad shoulders and trails them down his skinny frame. "You know, I feel like in another life you're probably built like a brick house, but this... Six foot boy with barely any meat on his bones... At least you've got a bit of pudge on you now. Alastair may be an evil demon but I gotta admit he keeps you fed."

With his eyes on Gabriel's face, Sam smiles. He turns his back to the reapers and their prey and spins Gabriel with him and pushes him backward so the shorter man steps blindly (not so blindly, considering his form covered in hundreds of thousands of unblinking star-bright eyes) where Sam steers him. Sam kisses his human face and whispers, "Take me somewhere the windows won't try to eat me."

Gabriel makes a pained expression. Twisted mouth and knit brow. But he snaps his fingers, with the more solid of hundreds of astral hands on Sam's arm.

The streets and buildings melt away until Sam and Gabriel stand in a windowless, doorless room. Red carpeting, white walls, shadowy ceiling. Mattress on the floor with scarlet sheets and zebra print pillows. Gabriel tugs Sam there—it's the only furniture in the room.

"Is this where you live?"

Gabriel shrugs. "Maybe."

"It suits you."

Sam lays back in Gabriel's bed and pulls him down, and Gabriel lets himself be tugged over to lay across Sam. He kisses him once and then falls still, breathing only for a semblance of humanity, with his head on Sam's chest. He runs a hand down Sam's arm. Fans out his scores of wings. They phase through the walls, it seems. Through the floors and the ceiling. Curl around and around, wrapping him and Sam up in a cocoon of white light.

He reaches up to Sam's face—covers his eyes.

Sam falls asleep instantly.


	9. Shining like a god

"I had a brother, once."

Gabriel frowns and looks at Sam from his ratty red armchair.

Sam interrupts his own train of thought to ask, "If you're an angel, why is your apartment so shitty?"

"Seriously?" Gabriel stands and walks over to the window—which hadn't been there during the night—and draws the curtains aside. He looks out on the street. "I don't really spend a ton of time here, kid. I don't need it to be impressive. And I blend in better this way." He picks at the hem of his sleeve. "Look normal, look human. Don't get ganked." He turns his head with a wink.

Frowning, Sam rolls onto his side. "What do you mean, 'don't get ganked'?"

Gabriel snorts. "I mean," he says. "That I like to go around punishing assholes who abuse positions of power, and I gotta keep on the down-low if I don't wanna get stabbed by some jackoff who thinks he knows how to kill a Trickster. Not that it would _do_ anything to me, but I don't like being stabbed in the chest. You know?"

"Trickster?"

"Trickster. Posed as Loki for a long time. Posing as a Trickster now." Gabriel shrugs. "It's fun. And I can dish out justice. Just-desserts."

Sam sighs and turns all the way over, onto his stomach, spreading his arms out. He watches Gabriel quietly for a moment. Clears his throat, because he feels extra hoarse. He sighs again. He's a tad dizzy, and his surroundings still seem somewhat luminescent. It's distracting. He closes his eyes and mutters, "My brother practically raised me. Even though he was just a coupla years older 'n me."

Gabriel—watching a woman push a grocery cart down the street—raises his eyebrow. "Your daddy was useless." He smirks and glances at Sam for a moment to say, "If I could have done it without endangering you two, I woulda given him a taste of his own medicine a long time ago. He had responsibilities and he neglected them."

"Hey—"

"Sam." Gabriel shakes his head. "A thirteen, fourteen year old boy shouldn't be worrying about how he's gonna feed his little brother 'cause his daddy didn't give them enough money for food."

Sam opens his eyes to peer at Gabriel. He shrugs. "Guess so."

Gabriel closes the curtains with a snap of his fingers and walks over to Sam. His expression is neutral and bored, suddenly, as he plops down onto the mattress and drapes himself over Sam. He kisses Sam's face and neck and shoulders and murmurs, "You're what, twenty-two?"

"Twenty-three."

Gabriel whistles. "Been just about ten years since you saw them, huh?"

Sam nods.

"Do you miss them?"

"I miss Dean." Sam squirms and dislodges Gabriel so he can lay on his back again. He pulls the shorter man into his arms. "Sometimes I wonder if they tried to find me, you know?"

Gabriel says nothing. He leans into Sam and stares at his hands. Frowns. He's troubled, it seems.

Sam frowns. "Gabriel?" He gets no response, so he asks, "Gabriel, what are you not saying?"

Gabriel shrugs, and tilts his head back. Looks up at the ceiling, decorated with plastic stars. "They tried. I mean, Dean tried. John mostly wanted to track Azazel, but you also happened to be a part of that goal. But mostly, it was Dean. Fourteen year old kid, searching desperately for his baby boy." He pauses and his mouth twists. "There are rumors, kiddo. Stories going around on the angelic frequencies. Hell, demons are talking about it, too." He breathes out heavily. "Big news going around."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

A discontented groan.

"_Gabriel_."

"Fine, fine." Gabriel squirms for a moment to get comfortable. "Dean got hurt about ten years back, and your daddy—jackass that he is—sold his damn soul. You know what that means, Sammy? Means he's in Hell. Big guy made a deal for Dean to live, and now his time's due, and John Winchester is in Hell."

Sam makes a face. "What about Dean?"

"Dean's fine."

Gabriel deliberates for a moment.

"Dean's just a hunter. He's fine. But... Your dad's gonna crack."

"What do you mean?"

With a grumble, Gabriel says, "Torture. Gonna try to get him to turn and torture to get himself off the rack. It's a big deal. They're trying to, uh... start the Apocalypse."

Sam freezes for a moment. "Are you—what?" He twists to try and get a good look at Gabriel's face. "The _Apocalypse_?" His voice cracks, and he coughs a little. "What?"

"It's complicated."

Sam glares. "How do you even know this? Are you just joking?"

Gabriel pulls away and turns around, leveling a serious stare on Sam. He narrows his eyes before saying, "I have a lot of connections, okay? And I wish I _was_ joking, but I've heard enough to know that... this is serious. And I fear your daddy isn't gonna hold up down there." He averts his eyes, posture stiff, and tries half a smile. "You should try asking your sugar daddy about it."

With a snort, Sam says, "He's not my sugar daddy, jerk."

Gabriel grins. "Says you." He wiggles back into Sam's arms, leaning a head on his shoulder. "Just... ask him about it. And tell him not to, I dunno, gut me."

"If he wanted you dead, you'd already be dead. Trust me." Sam bites his lip. "'Cause he definitely knows I'm with you right now."

"Oh, well you neglected to mention _that_." Gabriel makes a face, with his eyebrows all scrunched up. "Does he have a tracking device on you, or something?"

Sam shakes his head. "Considering he let me leave the house drugged, I think he probably has some minions or something keeping track of me. I dunno." He shrugs. "Telepathy, maybe."

Gabriel nods.


End file.
